Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

Hamilton Bates.

It’s not like I don’t know he watches me. I feel his laser sharp gaze on me all the time. At first, I was inwardly pretty paranoid about it, but now it’s like an eerie comfort. Keep your enemies close, right? Hamilton is definitely my enemy. He loathes me, blames me. The feeling is mutual.

I always make an effort not to look, no matter how much I want to, how much my instincts itch or my spidey-senses go on alert. I pretend like I’m not even aware of his focus on me in the hallway, or in the classes we share. I pretend like he’s not tracking my times at swim or observing me across the quad. It’s Hamilton. He’s a raging asshole, but he knows not to cross a line, or his daddy will crack the whip.

He’d also never, ever touch me.

God, he may get infected by my inferior genes.

But in this moment, I can see him in the reflection. As he’s completely unaware of this, I take a moment to resentfully soak in the Devil. He’s tragically beautiful, truth be told. He has the face and body of a god, and these cold eyes that could pin you even when they aren’t trying to drill a hole into your skull. As someone who’s been exposed to his nearly naked body since we started swimming together, I can definitely attest that he’s genetically superior—there’s no doubt about that. He’s got the perfect swimmer’s physique; long, lean, and ripped with muscles. His wing-span allows him to glide across the pool like he was born in the water. His entire torso is just frankly ridiculous.

And his face?

Well, his features are striking, created from generations of perfect unions. The guy is basically a walking, talking CW star, like...it’s just obnoxious. But his looks are diminished by the perpetual, unnerving scowl on his face. His eyebrows are always pulled low in anger, making his eyes seem even darker than usual. Soulless. Lost. And his full bottom lip is always raw and chapped from worrying it with his teeth.

I stare so long, so hard at his reflection that I don’t realize the moment our eyes meet, caught with one another, until it’s too late. His lip curves up into an evil smirk, as if I’m the one being busted by watching him. The heat of embarrassment rushes up my neck, but I don’t blink, I don’t look away, he’s not going to win—

“Can I sit here?”

I blink, poorly recovering my flinch. “Huh?”

The stranger repeats, “Is it cool if I take this seat?”

I glance back at the window, searching once again for Hamilton’s reflection, but he’s already gone, vanished like a spiteful mirage. With a steeling inhale, I finally take in the guy standing before me. He’s not incredibly tall—compact, but the fit lines of his upper body are visible through his white button-down shirt. His tie is askew and I smell the hint of chlorine when he moves.

“Who are you?” I ask, not unkindly.

“Tyson Riggins.” He brushes his blond hair out of his eyes and offers me his hand. I stare at it for a moment and then remember my manners, shaking it. He explains, “I’m new. A transfer from Northridge.”

“A transfer?” From Northridge? I study his face, trying frantically to draw a memory of him from that line of boys waiting to have a go at my sister. Fortunately for both of us, I come up blank.

I glance around and wonder if this is some kind of setup. Typically, no one pays me any attention, so it has that faint whiff of deceit.

“I got a scholarship for the diving team. My coach pulled some strings and got me on the Red Devils. Seems like you were short a diver this year and they needed to fill the gap.”

“Oh,” I say, still a little confused. “Okay?”

He sits across from me and picks up his plastic fork. “You’re Gwendolyn Adams.”

“Gwen,” I correct, feeling the pull of tension in my shoulders. “Do we know one another?”

He shovels a spoonful of mac n’ cheese into his mouth, talking around it. “I watched you swim at the state finals last year and take the record in the two hundred free. You’re really good.”

I search his eyes for a long moment, looking for any sign of malice or artifice. But the gaze that holds mine is warm, casual. I look away, clearing my throat. “That’s... I mean, thank you.”

He tears off a piece of chicken, pops it in his mouth and licks the grease from his fingers. “Sorry you have to see this. I’m starving. Morning practice and all.”

“I have brothers,” I reply, fighting a smile. “I’m familiar with the repulsive eating habits of growing boys.”

He grins and bites off a chunk of roll.

I lean forward, deciding he seems earnest enough. Probably a nice kid. Probably fun to hang around. Probably not someone who wants their reputation ruined on the first day at a new school. “Look, it’s nice of you to come over and everything, and I don’t want to seem like a bitch, but I’m not really sure sitting with me is going to put you on the right foot around here. You may want to find another seat.”

“Oh, the fact you were sitting alone was a big plus for me.” His blue eyes scan around the room. “I might not go here, but trust me, I know these assholes. Been competing agai

nst them for years. It’s like all those generations of in-breeding turned their brains into toxic mush. When I walked in here, recognized you, and saw you sitting alone, it was like a sign from god.”

He lifts the chain on his neck, revealing a silver cross, and presses it to his lips.